


It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding

by brittanydbrock



Category: One Tree Hill
Genre: AU season 5, Drunk Nights, F/F, F/M, Gen, Sexual Content, Warnings May Change, elope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittanydbrock/pseuds/brittanydbrock
Summary: Two tickets to Vegas. Two wedding rings. Two best friends. One drunken night. One incredible journey to love, laughter, and maybe a happily ever after. AU 5x18





	It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding

**Chapter One**

             

            It is a fair assumption to think that at twenty-three years old, one has managed to learn how to survive endless nights of alcohol consumption and other lively parties. For Brooke Davis, it was a lesson that she certainly had down pat by the time that she was seventeen years old. While growing up in Tree Hill may have left her with very little to do, there were sure a lot of parties with stolen alcohol and plenty of regrets. However, despite surviving all those countless parties in Tree Hill, in which the taste of whiskey burned in the back of her throat and the greedy hands of basketball boys touched all her curves. Despite all those parties in college, in which tequila made her clothes fall off, and she choked on the heavy stench of marijuana. Despite all the parties in New York City, where men forgot her name and she chugged vodka like it was water—Brooke Davis never truly believed that she was dying.

            That was, until, _this_ _morning_.

            Groggily, her eyelids struggle to open as the bright lights cascade around the room around her. For a split second, she swears that her heart is in her head as she can practically feel it thumping in the same rhythm as the most essential organ in her body. Her mouth is dry, however, there is the soured taste of bile lingering in the back of her throat, along with the bitter taste of whiskey. _Everything **hurts**_ , she grumbles, rubbing the dry crusts from her eyes vigorously. Although her body grumbles in protest, Brooke forces herself to rise in the bed just slightly, allowing her eyes to dance around the room.

            It’s a hotel room.

            Wrinkling her brow in confusion, Brooke notices the beige color of the walls, the coffee maker sitting on the counter, along with the rather large television with a program guide sticking out from under it. She notices the large closet doors that resemble something inside of a palace and the all too familiar scent of air freshener lingering from the corners of the room where it was automatically spritzed from. It is a nice room—not that she would have stayed in anything less than _high quality,_ she snorts inwardly to herself. She just certainly does not remember making _this_ kind of reservation.

            In fact, Brooke bemuses, she does not really remember much of _anything_. She doesn’t remember ordering this hotel room, or even what _state_ she is in. She doesn’t know why her mouth tastes like old alcohol and stale cigarettes, or why she chose to sleep in only her bra and a pair of men’s boxers. The very last thing that she remembers is that nice lady snatching her baby away. Sure, Angie hadn’t _really_ belonged to her, and it was a _temporary_ arrangement after all, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt any less. She had grown to love Angie, to care for her, to want to keep her and send her to the best preschool in the entire country. Angie became her _daughter_ , and some nice lady snatched her away to send her back to some foreign country. Her house had been silenced by the sounds of baby laughter and so had Brooke’s **_heart_**.

            Raising up even further in the bed, Brooke suddenly notices the warm body that is lying next to her. Swallowing a hard lump in her throat, as the brunette obviously does not recall sharing her sheets with anyone, she feels the tears burning in her eyes. The last time she had been this cheap was when she was in high school, and she had sworn to herself the second that she graduated, she would drop that “slut” name that seemed to follow her around. Gnawing on her bottom lip intensely, Brooke glances over and is met by a head full of blonde waves and a skinny body.

            “Peyton,” Brooke whispers, a small smile creeping onto her face.

            _Peyton Sawyer_. The woman of Brooke’s dreams, or well, something like that. Every time that something disastrous happened, or another crack appeared in Brooke’s heart, there was Peyton with stitches, a gentle smile, and good music putting her back together again. Every time that Bitchoria was far too much, or the world seemed like it was crashing down upon her, there was _Peyton_ , with a pillow fort and some stupid story to make her laugh until her stomach ached. While she had told everyone that she had came back to Tree Hill for Peyton, what she certainly hadn’t told them is that she also _stayed_ for Peyton. Peyton had been her best friend since she was just a little girl, but through Peyton—everything made sense. Everything was _easy_.

            To Peyton, Brooke Davis was not the head designer over Clothes over Bros.

            She was not a red-carpet star with a different man on her arm every night.

            No, she was just _Brooke Davis_.

            She was **_the girl behind the red door_**.

            Slowly, Peyton began to wiggle as Brooke continued to stare down at her bedmate affectionately. The sunlight carefully danced upon Peyton’s bone structure, lighting each darkened corner and imperfection. Brooke studied how Peyton’s nose was just slightly crooked from that time that she got in a fight after someone had called Brooke easy; she notices how her lips are slightly turned upward in a gentle smile and her long eyelashes graze upon her upper cheek so delicately. She’s _perfect_ , Brooke sighs, studying the brooding blonde, and how Lucas never saw _that_ …well Brooke will never truly understand.

            Sluggishly, Peyton’s emerald eyes begin to flutter open, squinting harshly at the sunlight—reacting very similar to Brooke. Her body yelled in protest, and the brightness felt like it was nearly blinding. Grunting in disapproval, Peyton extends her arm forward, gently wrapping it around Brooke’s waist. However, the feeling of exposed skin beneath her fingertips causes Peyton’s brow to wrinkle and her eyes to shoot open. Suddenly, the darkest pair of brown are met with confused, glistening emerald and Brooke cannot help but chuckle warmly at her best friend’s reaction.

            “Well! Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Brooke smiles, allowing her fingers to brush through the rough bed headed blonde waves. There is a warm blush that curls within Peyton’s cheeks as her fingertips begin to brush a small pattern onto Brooke’s bare skin—an action that had always been so calming to both girls.

            “Brooke,” whispers Peyton, sleepily with a gentle wrinkle of her nose. Brooke chuckles at her friend’s disapproval of mornings. Peyton certainly had not changed very much since they were small children—Brooke recalls with a roll of her eyes. Every day during the summer of their third-grade year, the brunette always had to jump repeatedly on Peyton’s bed to even awaken her and then once she had achieved the mission, it took her another two hours to get her out of bed in order to go swimming. Shaking her head with a gentle chuckle, Brooke pushes Peyton’s arm from her torso as she stands, her body popping in disapproval. “Damn.” She can hear Peyton grumble before she grabs a pillow, snuggling up to it instead.

            “I suppose _you_ don’t know how all of ‘this’” Brooke pauses, gesturing around the exceptionally large suite with her index finger, “happened, do you?” She grabs a rather large t-shirt from off the floor, one that she certainly does not remember placing there. Peyton only shakes her head, messy curls falling onto her face as she rises in the bed.

            “Not a clue. But it’s a pretty sweet room!” Peyton grins, noticing the adjoining glass doors that lead out to a balcony. Brooke rolls her eyes with a laugh, as she grabs the television remote from the dresser, slamming it shut a little too loud.

            “Yeah, a pretty _expensive_ room that my Mom is probably going to shit over when she realizes that I charged it to the company,” Brooke grumbles, flicking the television on before she enters the large bathroom with double sinks and marble countertops, “at least I sprung for a place with a tub and a shower though! Ahh, the _possibilities!_ ” Her voice is almost a sing-song as it bellows out of the bathroom and Peyton can’t stifle the laugh in the back of her throat.

            For nearly her entire life, Brooke Penelope Davis had always been her _constant_. She was the one who walked in the pouring rain to lie in bed with her after Anna died. She was the one who always came over when it thundered because she knew Peyton was afraid. She was the one who nursed every heart break and always followed her around the record stores even though she never knew who the bands were. She was the one who _always_ forgave her, no matter what, even with Lucas. She saved her from Ian, from cocaine, hell, even from _herself_.

            She was the one who gave up her _entire dream_ to come back home to Tree Hill the second that Peyton started feeling lost. Brooke always had this way about her, Peyton bemuses as she takes a swig from the water bottle beside of her bed, to always find her when she is lost, and she always brings her back. _Whole_.

            “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again. Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again,” Brooke sings from the bathroom, the sound of her truth brush muffling some of the words. Laughing, Peyton jumps from the bed as she races towards the bathroom to watch the brunette dancing, toothbrush in hand, with the remnants of toothpaste lingering around the edges of her mouth.

            “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am young again. Whenever I am alone with you, you make me feel like I’m fun again,” Brooke smiles, holding the toothbrush over to Peyton as the warm blush curls in her cheeks.

            “However far away, I’ll always love…” However, Peyton trails off when she notices the foreign object on Brooke’s finger. Her _left ring_ finger to be exact. The item looked as if it was made of pure gold and snuggling held onto the digit for all costs. She’s _married_.

            It hits Peyton like a ton of bricks, knocking the air completely out of her. Wrinkling her brow in confusion, Brooke opens her mouth to speak when the television interrupts them both.

            “Fashion superstar Broke Davis was spotted last night in Las Vegas!” The young teleprompter spoke as pictures of the brunette flash upon the screen. Shaking her head softly, Brooke grabs the curly haired woman and practically drags her in front of the television. The newscaster is recalling all of Brooke’s accomplishments at Clothes over Bros, and the brunette can only watch in the utmost confusion.

            “Vegas? Why in the hell did I…oh my God.” Brooke stops, her eyes staring into Peyton’s.

 

            _“Hey, it’s me. Look, I’m at the airport and I’ve got two tickets to Las Vegas,” Brooke speaks into the phone as she pulls her luggage closer towards her, “it’s been one hell of a day. Angie’s gone. Luke’s sad. My Mom’s a bitch and everything just sucks. So, do you want to run away tonight? Just me and you.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line before her ear is filled with laughter and her heart practically jumps in her throat._

_“I’d love to run away with you, Brooke Davis.”_

_“Great, I’ll wait for you. Like always. See you at the gate, P. Sawyer.”_

 

            “Brooke, I think you should know that you’re…” Peyton lifts her hand to point at the ring upon the brunette’s finger and that is when Brooke notices it. The golden band that is snuggly wrapped around Peyton’s _left ring finger_ , to be exact, as if it had always belonged there.

            “Peyton, how could…” Brooke stumbles over her words for a moment, taking a step backwards when the newscaster catches their attention once more. Suddenly, on the television screen, there are photos of Brooke **and** Peyton standing outside of some club, in front of a limo, and Brooke’s placing a soft kiss upon the blonde’s cheek.

            “It seems that fashion star Brooke Davis may be taking a new name. Sources have confirmed that Davis, alongside Bedroom Records producer Peyton Sawyer were seen together outside of our very own Chapel of the Bells! As you can see from this footage, these two lovebirds tied the knot! Congratulations, newlyweds!” The announcer stated as a video from last night flashes upon the screen. Brooke is in a black dress, exiting from the chapel as her fingers are intertwined through Peyton’s—there’s flashes, people screaming their names, and then Brooke’s lips on Peyton’s.

            “ _This is my **wife** , Peyton Sawyer. And you all better take note because she’s my comet!” Brooke drunkenly giggles before pulling Peyton back into another kiss, both women beaming from ear to ear_.

            Quickly, and without saying a word, Peyton grabs the remote and presses the mute button. Swallowing hard, emerald eyes soon find a pair of russet brown as Brooke’s lips move in protest, attempting to say something, _anything_. Slowly, Peyton looks down at her finger, noticing the gold band that is the mirror image of Brooke’s.

            _Married_.

            “What the hell _happened_ last night?” Brooke asks, slowly sitting upon the bed. It is only then that she notices the rose petals that are cascaded around upon the floor. She pinches the bridge of her nose as a heavy sigh escapes from within her and Peyton smiles softly as she shrugs her shoulders. Carefully, as if seeking permission, the blonde sits next to her friend, gently allowing her finger to trace the shape of the ring upon her hand.

            “We got married, B. Davis,” Peyton smiles weakly, noticing the tears that are in Brooke’s eyes. Most tenderly, she reaches over as her thumb gently brushes away one of the stray tears that have escaped those long eyelashes before she chuckles, “or should I say, B. Sawyer.”

            And before Brooke could even say anything back, Peyton retreats into the bathroom, slamming the door and starting the shower. Growling in frustration, Brooke picks up a mug, throwing it at the wall as it shatters.

            “Brooke Sawyer? Peyton Davis? What the hell were we _thinking?!”_ Brooke groans, throwing herself backwards on the bed. She holds her breath and pinches the bridge of her nose, hoping that when she opens them, it will all simply be a nightmare. However, when she opens them, she is _still_ in the suite in Las Vegas and she almost swears that she can hear Peyton singing Billy Idol over the shower.

_Hey little sister, what have you done? Hey little sister, who's the only one? Hey little sister, who's the Superman? Hey little sister, who's the one you want? Hey little sister, shotgun!_

_It's a nice day to start again It's a nice day for a white wedding It's a nice day to start again_


End file.
